


Somewhere Between The Music and Lyrics

by hanwritessolo



Series: Alternate Universes In Which You and I Belong Together [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, M/M, Music, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-18 13:58:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17582204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanwritessolo/pseuds/hanwritessolo
Summary: You never expected that your own rendition of an indie song would go viral. This should not have happened if your friends had never uploaded the goddamn video in the first place. But it’s too late to undo this mess now, not when your overnight hit has already attracted hundreds of thousands of views and a strange onslaught of press coverage. So it should not be a surprise that the next thing you find right outside your doorstep is Prompto Argentum, the lead vocalist of The Lost Boys—you know, the guy who wrote the music you just made a popular sensation.





	1. Verse/chorus

Prompto had been busily sifting through The Lost Boys’ unanswered emails at the back of their tour bus when he hears his song.

Except, it’s not quite _his_ song.

He recognizes the lyrics in an instant—and he of all people would know of course, since he had written those words as a cry for help for his hopelessly romantic soul. But the song that aches through the speakers holds none of Ignis’s electric riffs, the swell of Gladio’s drums, the steady hum of Noctis’s bass, let alone his own vocals. The one he hears is _his_ music stripped to its rawest, the words made vulnerable by a melancholic leak of a lone acoustic guitar and an exquisitely soulful voice.

_We belong together_  
_Like the open seas and shores_  
_Wedded by the planet force_  
_We’ve all been spoken for_

Prompto scrambles to the front lounge to find Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis huddling by the booth over a laptop set on the table, their eyes glued to the screen in wild wonder.

Curiously, Prompto eyes them—still grinning wide in awe—and asks, “Are you guys hearing what I’m hearing now? Am I dreaming? What is _happening?”_

Noctis snorts a laugh. He swivels the laptop to face Prompto. “You might want to check this out, my friend.”

Prompto excitedly moves closer. Immediately, he sees the video accompanying the song entitled _“we belong together (cover) by my amazingly talented roommate!!!”_ posted by username _MasterPelnaK._ He barely even notices how this video has been raking almost five hundred thousand views and likes in the last twenty-four hours as his attention zeroes in on the stranger sitting on a bean bag, equipped with nothing but the guitar and _that_ voice.

_What good is a life_  
_With no one to share_  
_The light of the moon_  
_The honour of a swear_

_Gods._ The tone and vibrato is so on point it sends shivers down his spine. But then, Prompto begins to wonder why this person is not even looking directly at the camera. Were they even aware that they were being recorded? It seems all too candid given the angle, as if the camera had just been discreetly set up on a low-lying table. Not to mention the very personal space in the background, too: a well-lit room of white walls, a cozy looking sofa, an impressive shelf of books and vinyl records tucked between potted fiddle leaf figs. Somewhere out of sight, hushed whispers could still be heard. Was this only recorded from a mobile phone?

Anyway, not that any of these things mattered. Prompto has rarely come across other artists covering their songs, and when he does, each one he cherishes dearly. But this one— _this one, for heaven’s sake—_ has moved him the way the winds bend the trees to its will, a tiny flint that sparks a flame. He didn’t realize that the words he had written could be afforded such lyrical heft, that the music he had created had been a delicate and honest confessional that could fit someone else’s voice so beautifully, like finding a piece of a puzzle he never knew he had been missing.

_Where have you been all my life?_

So Prompto watches it again. And then a couple times more. Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis gather to watch him curiously. Prompto briefly skims through the comments section and is thoroughly relieved to read overwhelmingly positive feedback. He didn’t even mind when he comes across a comment that says _“this is even better than the original!”_ because fuck it, he shares the same sentiment.

And before Prompto could even scroll back up to replay the video, Gladio drags the laptop away from him.

Prompto sneers in protest. _“Dude._ Not cool _at all—”_

“What’s not cool is obsessing over a cover of your own fucking song,” Gladio says in jest.

“Hey, it’s a fucking cool cover, okay!” Prompto scoffs and flicks his eyes on the ceiling—almost rolls them, but not quite so. “And please, big guy. I’m not _obsessing._ I’m too chill to be obsessed, thank you very much.”

“I clearly remember you saying to the crowd earlier how you’re never the _‘chill’_ person of sort, and my word. How quickly the tables have turned,” Ignis casually remarks as he takes a sip from his mug of coffee.

Prompto’s mouth falls open. He did say that onstage during their performance back at Leiden Fest. His immediate regret is letting Ignis triumphantly take it against him.

Meanwhile, Noctis lifts a suspicious eyebrow at Ignis. “Iggy, are you sure you’re not drinking tea? ‘Cause you just poured a scalding one right there.”

“I’m impressed—that’s a good one.” Gladio gives Noctis and Ignis a thundering high-five. They burst out in a gale of laughter.

“You guys are enjoying this, huh.” Prompto grabs a pillow and smashes it at Noctis, who only yelps in between fits of laughter. He hurls one at Gladio, too, but the big guy has reflexes of a jungle cat, so he only ends up catching the thing. Ignis, however, Prompto hesitates at the last second when he shoots him a menacing glance. “Okay, I’m not even going to bother attacking you, ‘cause I’m pretty sure you will kill me if you spill that coffee.”

Ignis gives him a smile and a nod, and returns to his drink.

“Also,” Noctis says, “now that I think about it, you’re giving off that same look and vibe the first time you were crushing on Cindy.”

“What? I do _not—_ okay, okay—” Prompto groans, jabbing a finger at Noctis— _“that_ is different. Cindy is our road manager, so I’m choosing not to cross the line. While this…” Prompto pauses and takes a deep breath. _“This_ is also different. A very surreal and magical kind of different.”

“Now I’d say someone’s been bitten by a lovebug.” Ignis leans back on his seat, arms crossed, regarding Prompto with a pleasant smile.

Gladio laughs. “Tell me about it.”

“I can’t believe I’m friends with you guys,” Prompto says in a miserable groan.

But frankly, Prompto is far from miserable having Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis as friends. He considers himself quite fortunate to have found brothers in them, painfully annoying as they may be from time to time. Besides, it was through their music that helped them bond and weather the toughest of their adolescent years: they were no stranger to teenage angst, to riotous episodes of rebellion, to whirlwind romances and crazy ex-lovers, and to the turbulent journey that led them to be the band that they are today. Naming themselves _The Lost Boys_ seemed to be a fitting tribute to the misadventures of their youth: Always lost and never found.

And yet, regardless of their highs and lows, the four of them have always had each other’s back. And that has not changed even now that they are in their thirties.

Perhaps Prompto is being overly sentimental at this point, but that’s just how it is.

Or maybe, he really has been bitten by a lovebug.

“In any case—“ Noctis firmly clasps Prompto’s shoulder— “this amazing cover of your song is breaking the Internet as we speak.”

“Well, yeah.” Prompto shrugs, though he cannot hide it in from his face how pleased he truly is. “Though I do wonder who this MasterPelnaK is.”

“Definitely _not_ the person in the video, that’s for sure,” says Gladio.

“If I may?” Ignis reaches for the laptop from Gladio. “Let’s see here—“ the boys squeeze themselves into the seat so they could also get a look as Ignis hovers around the profile page— “this Pelna Khara happens to be a video game blogger—“

“It’s a _vlogger,_ Iggy—get in with the times,” Prompto corrects cheerfully.

Ignis exhales an exasperated sigh. He returns his attention back on screen. “Apparently, this vlogger streams gameplays and commentaries—“

“Really?” Noctis interrupts out of a sudden rush of excitement. “Do you think he has one for Assassin's Creed—“

Prompto nudges Noctis by the arm. “Dude.”

“Right. Sorry,” Noctis says sheepishly. “Carry on.”

“Anyway.” Ignis is unfazed by the interruption as he goes on: “It appears that this is the first time this Pelna fellow uploaded this sort of material.”

“Oh and look, he’s very popular, too,” Noctis says. “Ten million subscribers? What the fuck—“

“Wouldn’t be surprised now that the video got so many hits overnight,” Gladio notes pensively. “And check it out—“ he points at the bio section— “he lives in the city. Says his hub is somewhere in Downtown Insomnia.”

As if struck by the same spectacular idea, Noctis and Gladio exchange knowing glances. Ignis, of course, is quick to catch on.

It takes a while for Prompto to understand what’s going on, and when he finally does, he shoots them all a dubious gaze. His friends are up to something, and the glint in their eyes could only spell mischief.

“Guys—” Prompto starts as calmly as he could, hands raised in an almost surrender— “whatever you guys are thinking, we don’t need to do this—”

“We don’t need to—but _you_ do,” Gladio claps Prompto’s back. “We got ya, my guy.”

“And before you all intend to push through with this,” Ignis says, “would anyone be so kind as to ask Cindy if we can change our course and make a quick pitstop. And let Iris know, too, since… well. She’s our handler, after all.”

Gladio rises out of the booth. “On it,” he says as he makes his way to the driver’s seat.

“And allow me to send a message to this fella,” Noctis adds promptly, already typing away in front of the laptop.

Prompto sinks helplessly to the seat beside Noctis. “Why are we all friends again?” he says loudly, and the meaningful response he receives is the sound of their amused laughter.

 

* * *

 

“I want that video deleted right _now.”_

Pelna winces at the sharpness of your words. Crowe, on the other hand, looks like she is ready to give you everything the world has to offer. In the years you have spent sharing a flat with them, this must be the first time you have ever seen them this apologetic. Which is only fair because this is the first time they have done something quite outrageous to upset you. Yes, sure—Crowe and Pelna might think you’re overreacting right now, but you’re no video blogger or Internet celebrity like the both of them are, so that’s entirely beside the point. As they sit side by side cowering on the couch and you standing over them—hands on waist, jaws clenched, eyes seething in fury—it’s as if they have committed a crime against all of humanity that cannot be forgiven.

Except the casualty of the said crime is you, and only you.

“Look, you have every right to be mad at me for my negligence—” Pelna nervously raises a hand, trying to look at you dead in the eye but flinches as if you are burning bright like the sun— “but I fucking swear, it wasn’t _me_ who uploaded the thing! Okay, I admit—I’ve been tempted to record you for some time now ‘cause in case you don’t know this yet, you’re a really _good_ singer. But trust me on this! I really have no idea how that video got out, I promise!”

“And it’s certainly not me who recorded you!” Crowe adds in their defense. “My alibi may not be perfect but I was already drunk that time! And even if I’m sober, I wouldn’t dare barge in Pelna’s room and tinker with his toys. Gods know what I’d find in there—”

“Only the good stuff, my dude,” Pelna says, suddenly pleased with himself. “Nothing but the good stuff—”

“How about we focus on the issue at hand, yes?” You pace back and forth, and in dire resignation, you finally flop on the armchair next to the couch. Fucking hell. It’s too early in the morning to have a head-splitting migraine. You wish this had been from a hangover or some other sickness, but it’s insane how this is all caused by seeing a video of yourself on the fucking Internet with no recollection of recording it _at all._ Sleuthing to find out the events that unfolded the night of Pelna’s birthday only seemed to make throbbing in your head even worse. As far as you could remember, most of the folks had been severely battered—which was why you had the guts to pull out your guitar and sing the blues away as everyone dozed off in their drunken stupor. But in your tight-knit circle of friends, if there’s anyone who could impressively hold their liquor the same way they could hold a knife, it could only be...

“Wait a fucking second.” Crowe narrow her eyes at Pelna, and then at you. She fishes out the phone in her pocket and hurriedly dials a number. With her phone on loudspeaker, the line rings once, twice, thrice. And then, a voice.

_“What’s up, Crowe—”_

“Nyx.” Crowe’s tone is already accusing that you didn’t even bother butting in. “You’re the one who uploaded the video on Pelna’s channel, weren’t you?”

A suspicious pause. Then, Nyx laughs. _“Maybe.”_

Pelna grabs the phone from Crowe. “I swear I will kill you when I see you, man! How dare you dishonour me—” as a knee-jerk reaction to his response, you kick Pelna in the shin that he yelps when he says— “and how dare you dishonour our _friend!”_

On the other line, Nyx is still laughing. _“Wait, on a scale of one to ten, how angry is_ —”

“Not the fucking point!” Pelna snaps back. “How did you even manage to get into my account, you piece of beautiful shit?”

_“Well, maybe next time you should make sure you always logout, alright?”_

“Well, fuck you.”

_“Thanks, but no thanks.”_ Nyx says breezily. Even in a phone call, his voice never fails to carry his air of arrogance. _“But hey, kidding aside. You all said that we should help each other in living to the best of our potential, right? And our friend right there with you, Pelna—yes, you, I know you’re listening, too—do you even realize how fucking talented you are? You have been serenading us all our life, and this is the least I could do to share how proud I am to have a gifted friend like you. I’m sorry if it’s a jackass move, but I know if I asked for your permission, that thing would never see the light of day.”_

The four of you bask in a sudden uneasy silence. You should not have been touched by Nyx’s words, but here you are, almost moved into tears. Despite his occasional display of pride and vanity, Nyx is one of the kindest human beings you have ever had the pleasure to meet. He may not seem like it, but he’s the very definition of a jerk with a heart of gold. You just hope he could completely forego being the jerk and stick with his golden heart instead.

This time, you take the phone from Pelna and say, “Treat the three of us for dinner for the next two weeks, and I’ll decide if I should forgive you.”

_“Consider it done. I’m a man of my word,”_ Nyx says, and the sound of his relief is evident in his voice. _“Now... am I out of trouble?”_

“Certainly not, you dickhead. Later.”

You drop from the call and hand the phone back to Crowe. The two of them gape at you as if you have finally turned out to be the monster they have always known you to be.

“Wow. You really did _that,”_ Crowe says, looking very impressed. “You actually shut Nyx up _and_ made him agree to pay for two weeks worth of dinner. Aren’t you a delight.”

You manage a small smile. Pelna heaves one loud sigh of relief. “Now that we’ve finally cleared things up, are you sure you want me to take the video down? You’re really getting a lot of hype from my channel, I mean we’re close to half a million views! And—“

The shrieking sound of the doorbell cuts your conversation in an abrupt halt.

“Wait, I’ll get that,” Crowe gets up and rushes toward the door.

“So? Whaddaya say?” Pelna urges fervently. He is still invested on persuading you, and you can see it in his kind eyes. “It’s one video, I know… but you gotta believe us, you really are a fucking talent—”

“Pel, it’s not that. It’s...” You get on your feet, circling around the coffee table, as if it would help you articulate all the reasons behind your sense of trepidation. Honestly, you appreciate having Pelna and Crowe as friends for their selfless outpour of love and support for your craft. But how can you explain to them that sometimes, your own music terrifies you? Is there any logical explanation behind being scared of your own voice? So here you are, standing in front of Pelna, falling extremely inadequate to gather the words out of your mouth. Instead, you say, “I’m… just worried. What if The Lost Boys had seen it? And what if they’d hate me for it?”

Pelna offers you a weird, strained look. “Well, about that—”

“I don’t think there should be anything to worry about. We love it!”

The bell-like bounce of the voice that spoke clearly does not belong to Pelna nor Crowe, nor does it fit in the ordinariness of the space of your shared apartment.

You turn—hesitantly, too carefully—to see three of The Lost Boys standing by the doorway with Crowe. And standing in front of you is their frontman, Prompto, smilingly extending his hand to reach yours.

 

 

This horribly sunny day is getting stranger and stranger, and it’s not even noon yet.

Pleasantries have been made—and a little bit of internally slapping yourself in the face to make sure this is all happening—and now, it has all come to this. Leaning from the bar counter, you watch as the four infuriatingly beautiful men of The Lost Boys struggle to squeeze themselves in the poor thing you all call a sofa. Across from them is Crowe, sitting cross-legged on the coffee table, analyzing each of them from head to toe with the sole purpose of intimidating the shit out them. Which is no surprise, of course; Crowe rarely gets star-struck in the presence of famous people, and even if she does, she hides it effortlessly well. Meanwhile, Pelna is playing a staring game with the band’s drummer—and frighteningly the tallest and largest in the group—that you cannot help but wonder if Pelna has some sort of a death wish that he needs to get fulfilled right this instant.

“So, let me get this straight—” Crowe says, crossing her arms— “and I hope you don’t mind if we’re being cautious ‘cause, well, we don’t want our roommate to get dragged into something sketchy, but… you came all the way down here to this shabby neighbourhood after you saw the cover of your song, and now you want to collaborate on a song? Is that it?”

Prompto is the one who willingly answers with a vigorous nod. He seems unfazed with Crowe’s intention of scaring them off. He glances your way before he says, “And there’s no need to worry about the contract and all that legal stuff, ‘cause we’ll have that arranged. Right, Ignis?”

“Indeed,” says Ignis. “I know this arrangement seems completely out of sorts, seeing as we came here on such a short notice, but I can assure you that we offer nothing but the best of intentions.”

“Really?” you say as you move from behind the counter to sit together with Crowe. “But you’re all men. And you know what’s more dangerous than men? _Celebrity_ men.” No one said a word. A moment’s silence lingers as you study each of their faces, and then: “So how do I make sure that I could trust you with… this? That this isn’t some publicity stunt you’re trying to pull—”

“It’s not like that at all,” Prompto says firmly. “And if you have any doubts with your safety, well, I’m sorry if our friend Gladio looks so menacing for our image—”

“Seriously?” Gladio scoffs, turning to Prompto. “You really hurt my feelings.”

You try to stifle your laughter. Somehow, now that you look closely at the four of them, they remind you of Nyx, Libertus, and Pelna.

And suddenly, you feel bad for putting them in a hot seat like this.

As The Lost Boys begin to discuss amongst themselves with what you assume to be a stream of their inside jokes, Pelna sidles up to you while Crowe loops her arm around yours. Whispering, she says, “I think you should do it.”

Pelna discreetly adds, “And if they ever get you into trouble, Nyx is a lawyer so he should have your back. I already texted him and he’s ready to keep an eye out for you.”

You let out a rueful sigh. You have to admit, it’s hard to stay mad at Crowe and Pelna and Nyx when _this_ is the way they exhibit their unwavering friendship: with a flourish of genuine love and steadfast support.

Empowered by your friends’ confidence, you clear your throat and you turn your attention to the four men sitting in front of you. You fix your eyes at Prompto, and you ask, “So. When do we start this thing?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song in this chapter: Gavin DeGraw's _We Belong Together_


	2. Bridge/outro

The primly cultivated front garden and the violet bougainvillea that crept up the walls of the house before you looks nothing like a recording studio. At least, that’s what you have assumed from all the films you’ve watched, anyway. You reread the address on your phone: _1130 Citadel Road._ As far as your adequate knowledge of Downtown Insomnia is concerned—plus the guidance of Moogle Maps—you’re certainly in the right street. The numbers 1130 plastered by the metal railing clearly says you’re in the right lot, too. The only thing keeping you now from ringing the doorbell is the anxiety churning in your stomach like a raging sea. Overhead, a security camera is watching your every awkward move.

_Maybe it’s not yet too late to turn back,_ you think.

And as soon as the thought leaves you, you hear the sound of your own voice belting out from a passing car, its windows rolled down and its speakers all the way up for the entire neighbourhood to hear.

Your fingers tighten around your phone. This is the fourth time you’ve heard yourself on someone else’s radio, and it is bloody jarring to say the least.

A part of you is still reeling in from everything that has happened ever since that video got out. Who would’ve thought that the band you admired from the comfort of your earphones would suddenly appear right outside your doorstep? And have you lost your mind that you agreed to collaborate on a song with a band as popular as The Lost Boys? You still wonder how on earth they can consider someone like you after one fucking cover when, in fact, you have no formal training in music in the first place. Besides, you have already been perfectly honest with them—with Prompto, most especially, since he had been the one most eager to know more about you—regarding your background and what you do for a living. Which, frankly, had been a tricky discussion since you’re not that fond of talking about yourself without the hint of self-deprecation. But you did manage. As succinctly as you could, you told the boys that you’re simply a bumbling corporate slave by day and a struggling songwriter by night, with hopes of consistently paying your share on rent and amenities with your pesky Internet-famous friends.

_Maybe this is all a mistake,_ you think this time.

You glance at your phone again to check the time. Or rather, you’re hoping to see a message that they have cancelled the deal. But there’s nothing on your lock screen from any of The Lost Boys except the time that beams four-thirty p.m., a couple of unopened messages from Nyx (“u go blow their minds away but call me as soon as they fuck shit up” the initial sentence says, then followed by three eggplant emojis), Libertus (“drop by @ ostium’s tonight & we’ll celebrate!”) and a missed call from Pelna. Even with your friends’ show of support, you feel like you’re still dreaming. But what if this is really just a dream? What if right now, you’re actually still—

A low voice sneaks up behind you. “Can I help you?”

Startled out of your wits, you turn around and you find a tall man in a gray coat, eyeing you with great concern. He’s carrying a bag of groceries on one arm and a handful of books on the other. There’s something awfully familiar about his stern face, his silver-shaved head and magnetic blue eyes, that you cannot quite put a finger on it yet.

“I, uh—” you hesitate for a moment, scratching your cheek— “I don’t know if I’m in the right place, but would you know if there’s a recording studio nearby?”

“You’re actually standing in front of one.” The man flashes you an amiable smile. Your cheeks begin to burn red. Then, he says, “Wait, are you here for Prompto and the boys? I heard they’re expecting someone coming over.”

You nod. “Well… yes.”

“Perfect.” He jerks his head towards the gate. “I was just about to head inside myself. Please, come in.”

The man ushers you along the gravelly path, up the staircase, and into the blue door. Inside, you are welcomed by the sight of a lovely foyer, its pristine white walls tastefully decorated with framed photos and vinyl albums. A sharp aroma of black coffee wafts through the air. It is impossibly cold.

As the man carefully unloads his things on the center table, he tells you, “They should be in the booth right now. Follow me.”

You trail behind the man down the narrow carpeted hallway. You look around and you see more framed records hanging on the wall. You recognize some of it, and it’s like taking a stroll along an impressive hall of legends: The Beatles, Jackson 5, Joy Division, Nirvana, James Brown, Jimi Hendrix, and a few other names that you’re certain have made it in the Billboard charts. But you notice that most of the photos on a couple of shelves are that of the five-man band The Regalia, and you remember how your mother used to play their songs on the your old stereo, all because she could not get enough of Clarus’s vocals and...

The realization hits you like a speeding freight train.

“Holy fuck.”

The crispness of your words echoes throughout the corridor that the man turns around to look at you with a confused smile on his face. “Is something the matter?”

“I’m sorry. I, um… you’re...” You sigh, trying to quell your utter disbelief. Gods, how could you have been so blind? “You’re… Clarus Amicitia.”

His smile turns into an amused grin. “I am, indeed. At your humble service.” He regards you with a brief nod. “And you’re the fellow with the lovely voice.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. Gods. Did _the_ Clarus Amicitia—living legend of the Insomnian local music scene—just call your voice _lovely?_

This is too much for you to handle in one day.

“Uh, well, I—um, thank you. Sir.” You smile at him, but you lower your eyes on your shoes, realizing that your words of gratitude came out in a torment. If Clarus had noticed it, he was kind enough to pretend that he didn’t.

“No need to call me sir—Clarus is fine.” He smiles again right back at you. You’re quite certain that your mother would fucking flip if she finds out about this.

As Clarus leads you to the last door at the far end of the corridor, you can already hear an indistinct melody and the swell of the bass vibrating from the room.

“Here we are,” he says, opening the door. “After you.”

Entering the studio oddly feels like stepping into a different dimension. From the homely elegance of the hallways, the whole room is an air-conditioned sanctuary of hardwood floors and neatly-arranged equipment: massive speakers, rack systems, audio mixers and soundboards, and a bunch of other controls you can hardly name. A pair of acoustic guitars are tidily displayed beside a black couch. Here, strangely enough, the air is thicker with the scent of coffee.

And here, behind the glass panel and amidst all the polish is The Lost Boys, oozing a velvety riff and a soulful tune, steered by a flawless voice that belongs to none other than Prompto.

_It’s the birth of a star_  
_Earlier than sunset_  
_It’s the galaxy’s water_  
_Flowing like a riverbed_

You hold your breath, immediately drawn to Prompto’s honeyed melodies and the guilt of poetry in the lyrics. Of all the times you have listened to their music, you immediately notice how the rhythm departs from their signature sound. Then again, they have been known to take risks, may it be in their own songs or otherwise.

This, you realize, is their true magic. The minutes seem to have stopped ticking. Behind you, even Clarus has fallen silent.

_Yes they shine bright like a million_  
_Let them bleed twice for a minute_  
_Pleasure to have met you_  
_You’re my star tonight—_

The music stutters into a halt when Prompto’s gaze falls on you, his eyes meeting yours. A bright grin spreads all over his face, and he waves a hand at you, beckoning you to join them.

Clarus waves back at the boys, and rests a hand on your shoulder. “Make yourself at home. Don’t be afraid to let me know if these grown ass men cause any trouble for you. My son, most especially,” he says cheekily. “And might I just say—“ he folds his arms over his chest, his voice now employing a pensive tone— “I’ve had the pleasure of listening to your rendition of Prompto’s song. All these years, and my ears have not failed me. I know a good singer when I hear one.”

A rush of heat rises to your cheeks. “You’re far too kind to me,” you say, unable to help the smile that tugs the corners of your mouth. You spare one look and nod at Clarus as he leaves, while you awkwardly make your way inside the booth.

As soon as you step inside, Prompto greets you with a warm hug.

“Glad you made it!” he says as he pulls away. You actively ignore how good his cologne smells, or whatever scent he is wearing. “I was starting to think you changed your mind.”

“No. Actually… well, I thought about not coming here,” you admit sheepishly. “I got really nervous.”

“Hey, don’t be!” Prompto says brightly in reassurance, looping an arm around you. Okay, he _really_ does smell nice that you can actually forgive his lack of consideration for personal space.

“And you have nothing to be nervous about,” Noctis adds, fiddling with the strap of his bass guitar.

“Did my old man scare you on your way here?” Gladio asks from behind the drums.

“Oh, no. Not at all.” A lie, kind of. But Gladio looks like he’s buying it. To be fair, Clarus didn’t exactly scare you, though _scare_ is synonymous to _intimidate_ —because who wouldn’t be intimidated in the presence of Clarus fucking Amicitia? “Though he did say I should be careful of _you,”_ you say truthfully.

Prompto and Noctis erupt in a gale of laughter. Even Ignis is amused. Gladio shakes his head and with an apologetic smile, he tells you, “Please don’t mind my dad. I promise, I’m completely harmless—”

“I think your father is less concerned with your inclination to violence and more on your inclination to romancing… well, anything that moves,” Ignis chides as he returns his electric guitar on a stand, taking a seat next to the speakers.

Prompto unloops his arm around you and rests it on your shoulder as he says, “Don’t worry about this monster—I got you." At that, you feel like your heart skipped a beat. You could only wish that you're not blushing like a fool. "Though best believe he’d flirt with a lamp post if you dress it right.”

Gladio quickly shoots Prompto a threatening glare, and then he smiles at you. “Please don’t believe them.”

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try, I guess?” You laugh, and they do, too. It’s bizarre how being around them reminds you of being around your circle of friends. You shift on your feet a little, hesitant to the comfort of their company. Then, turning to Prompto, you gingerly ask, “Um, by the way. Were you guys recording a new song earlier?”

“Oh, that?” Prompto gives you a sheepish smile. “Not really—we’re just experimenting on some of the lyrics I wrote.” His eyes widen. “Speaking of, not to put you on the spot but—” Prompto dashes to take a mic stand and sets in front of you— “I was thinking this might help you ease into… all of this.”

You glance at Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis, all three of them looking at you expectantly. You narrow your eyes at Prompto. “Are you… trying to make me sing?”

He tilts his head. “Um, yeah. What else?”

“Really? Like right now?”

“Yes, like right now.” Prompto is grinning at you. First, he smells nice and now he’s being painfully charming. “Name any song. We’d play it with you.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “Any song? Seriously?”

“Yup.” Prompto laughs. “Why, you doubt we can’t play something mainstream like Rihanna? Or Queen Bey, even?”

“No, it’s not that—alright, then.” You chew on your bottom lip, and heave a long, shuddery sigh. Static rings from the microphone. You look around and out of the corner of your eye, you spot a spare guitar—in an instant you know it’s a Les Paul, gods bless your poor ass soul—sitting beside a Steinway piano. To Prompto, you say, “Can I borrow that guitar?”

He nods. “Yeah, sure.”

You take the blessed thing, equipping it as carefully as you can. You’re finding it hard to concentrate when all eyes are glued on you. Prompto, most especially. You draw a deep breath, and release your inhibitions in a loud exhale.

Then comes the crisp strum of your fingertips against the chords. The steady pace and pulse. You catch a glimpse of Prompto smiling at you, and that unmistakeable glint of recognition in his eyes. He knows the song. The rest of the boys know it, too. And as if by some form of telepathy, Gladio prepares the percussions. Ignis tunes his guitar, Noctis readies his bass. Prompto picks up another guitar to accompany you as you sing.

_Everyone knows_  
_All about my direction_  
_And in my heart somewhere_  
_I wanna go there_

It’s almost frightening how easily you slip into their dynamic, as if you have been a part of them for as long as can remember. You can feel yourself slowly relax, the nerves leaving your body and aptly replaced by the swelling notes. The cadence intensifies. It is when Prompto sings along with you that a jolt of electricity runs down your spine.

_Everyone knows all about my transgressions_  
_Still in my heart somewhere_  
_There’s melody and harmony_  
_For you and me tonight_

This, you realize, is a different kind of sorcery. His voice blends with yours so perfectly that you see Noctis and Gladio exchange wide-eyed glances. Prompto’s eyes locks on yours, and he flashes you that charming smile of his.

And all you can think to yourself is: _Where have you been all my life?_

 

* * *

 

Prompto knows that this was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. Still, he finds himself stealing away most of your days.

Not in a bad way, of course. After your first session with the band, he had insisted to accompany you home—quite a long walk, sure, but you said you were fond of walking and he wanted to spend more time with you—which somehow ended up with the both of you hanging out in your couch, exchanging playlists and punch lines and feasting on your Kenny Crow’s leftovers. Thankfully, your roommates didn’t seem to mind him being around the apartment, though he could not help but notice how they would purposely stay longer by the kitchen counter across the living room just to keep a watchful eye on you. Prompto found it equal parts endearing and frightening, but he really could not blame them. If he had someone like you, he would probably do the same thing.

Every second with you, he'd always find himself wanting another. So he treasures each day with you as it drifts onto the next, and all the nights that come along with it. With the limited time you spend with him in the studio writing and making music, he would make it a point to always walk you back to your place, if this is what it takes to be with you a little while longer. If he had to admit, apart from your insane talent, he adores your smile, and how it crinkles the corner of your eyes whenever you talk about your friends or any of your favourite things. He adores it even more when you do it on occasions he tells you a corny joke or two. He adores how your eyes brighten whenever your beautiful mind works its wonders into music. But he adores your laughter the most, how it's like a soothing melody he wants to listen to on repeat, so he tries to crack you up with an abundance of his silliness just to hear that bubbling laugh.

But he has seen you at your worst, too. If he could, he would trade all of his good days just for you to overcome your bad days. He’d write all the songs for you until his hands bleed, if need be.

Such a constellation are you to him. Who would have thought that his own song would lead him straight to you? But still, Prompto wishes he had the courage to say all these things. But as his adoration for you blossoms into something else, he lets his feelings known the only way he knows how: by letting the words leak into the page, letting it dry into a song.

_Even though we may be hopeless hearts_  
_Just passing through_  
_Every bone screaming I don’t know what we should do_  
_All I know is, darling, I was made for loving you_

 

* * *

 

You are startled to find Prompto alone in the studio, tuning his guitar.

“Where are the others?” you ask, as if by way of greeting. You drop your things by the couch, taking a seat beside him.

“Um, they’re—they went out to buy some food! Or something,” Prompto says nervously. He avoids your eyes. Weirdly, his nervousness is making you nervous, too. “I, uh—” he takes a piece of paper from his jacket and hands it to you— “I wrote down a couple of lines to complete the chorus. You wanna give it another go?”

You unfold the piece of paper and read the lyrics.

Shit. It’s beautiful. It’s too beautiful that you cannot help but wonder to whom he wrote it for. In the weeks you have known him, you’re aware that he isn’t exactly seeing anyone. The thought of the song has been written for another person makes your heart wince.

“Wow, this is… _really_ good, Prom,” you say as evenly as you can. “I guess whoever’s on your mind when you wrote this must be a lucky person.”

Prompto looks up at you. “Well, yeah. But I think I’m luckier ‘cause I have them by my side right now.”

A strange silence settles between the two of you. The only sound you can hear is your own heart racing in what seems to be a hundred miles per hour. You want to say something, but the words are locked somewhere down your throat.

Prompto sighs. “Look, I’d totally understand if you don’t feel the same way. I just want you to know what I feel—”

“Actually, I do feel the same way,” you say. You bite your lip to stop the smile trying to escape your lips, only to fail miserably.

“Wait, really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Are you serious—”

“Prom, if you don’t stop talking and if you don’t start kissing me right now, I’ll hate you forever.”

In that moment, he crosses the space between the two of you, cupping your face in his hands. This time, the silence sings. Its music dances at the beat of your own heart. Prompto takes his sweet time as he presses a kiss on your forehead, traveling down to the tip of your nose, and slowly but surely, his lips finally finding yours. 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs in this chapter: Jordan Rakei's _Eye to Eye,_ Justin Timberlake's _Say Something,_ Tori Kelly's _I Was Made For Loving You._


End file.
